PSOH Band Ficlets Round II 'The Cure'
by tigersilver
Summary: AU; occurs during the original manga series. Leon is ill, sicker than he's ever been in his life, and there's no one who gives a damn if he lives or dies. Or is there?


**PSOH Band Fics 'The Cure' **

Wouldn't you know it? Murphy's Law! The goddamned _minute_ he swore up and down he never caught colds, didn't he get fucking walloped not even twenty-four hours later by the most miserable virus that ever roared down the pike?

And here he was, all alone, his apartment a Superfund site disaster, gradually starving to death, throat too sore to eat even if there _was _anything to eat, nothing in the medicine cabinet to take but plain old aspirin, and with absolutely no hope of relief in sight.

D certainly wasn't going to let Chris come anywhere near him, not dripping and honking and chock full of germs like he was now. And 'Mr. Clean' wasn't going to leave Leon's little brother all by himself at the Shop long enough to stop in and see if Leon was still amongst the living, so there wasn't even a snowball's chance in hell for help from _that_ direction. Jill was way overloaded, too, taking all Leon's cases on by herself and covering his ass for him at work, so odds were pretty good _she_ wasn't going to visit the invalid, either. And there was no one else, really. Sure, Leon knew guys from the gym and he had his poker buddies from work, but they weren't exactly Nightingale material.

Might as well face it: the cavalry just wasn't coming.

Well, whatever. Leon didn't have the strength to crawl out of bed and call any of 'em the hell up, anyway. He'd do without, damn it. He was a big boy now; he could take care of himself. He'd have to.

….It kinda sucked, though. Sucked even more 'cause he damned well _knew_ the denizens of the Pet Shop would be having afternoon tea right about now, four o'clock on a Tuesday, and jeez, hot tea with lemon sounded really goddamned _good_ to his sneezing, achy, flu-ridden self. A cold cloth on his forehead would be just dandy, too, right about now.

But, sure as shit, that wasn't gonna happen.

Damn shame D _wasn't_ going to come, 'cause Leon didn't know anybody else who'd have the patience – or the knowhow – to make him feel human again. And, with his nose all screwed up like this, completely blocked with snot, he wouldn't have to worry about it if D got too close and exposed him to those fucking pheromones of his, 'cause Leon couldn't smell _a fucking thing_. The pheromones could go pound sand.

Leon wheezed in gusty, lung-congested humor at the weird mental picture and then scrabbled for the edge of his blue comforter, hunching it up over his shoulders 'cause he was fucking freezing all the sudden, like right now, when just a half-second ago he'd been really hot—burning the hell up, even.

It sucked, being sick. It really did. He wasn't even hungry, but he wanted something…something.

…_.Soup…chicken soup_. And those little oyster crackers floating around in it, all soft and mushy, soft and slippery like the egg noodles and the scraps of carrot in thin, fragrant broth. And ginger ale, iced cold and sipped through a paper bendy straw. Mom used to give him that, back when he was a little boy, even younger than Chris was now.

Then there was milk toast, like his mom used to make for him when he was really, really small; dotted with real butter squares melting on the toast and sprinkled with salt-and-pepper, swimming in a warm bowl of scalded milk. It sounded awful, yeah, but it was really good. He'd loved it, back then.

He'd loved a lot of things then, come to think of it; stuff he wouldn't see again in this lifetime. Childhood, like his so-called 'innocence', was long gone. Hit the road years ago, like his Dad.

Tapioca…hmmm, yeah; he could really go for a nice helping of good old 'fish eggs-and-glue,' sliding smooth as chilled silk down the reddened, painful throat he could barely breathe through. And a hot water bottle, tucked behind his aching spine, and maybe some more blankets, 'cause he was so damned cold now, it wasn't even funny…

And someone to straighten the quilt, which was rumpled and bunched around him—

And someone to give a goddamned shit whether he actually lived or died here—

"Damn it!"

Leon coughed, and hacked, and harrumphed, snorting and dribbling various icky liquids, and fretfully turned his stubbly, fevered face into his damp, rumpled pillow eventually, sniffy as all get out but bound and determined to _stop thinking_ (as far his floaty mind could) about what _wasn't_ going to happen—no way, no how, not _ever_—and just get some friggin' sleep…'cause god knows he wasn't up to doing much else right now.

***

"_You?_" Leon croaked a long time later, when the cool hand on his brow smoothed back his sweat-streaked hair and jolted him half-awake. A smiling Count D offered him a paper straw, sunk deep in a tall cylinder of sparkling pale soda, the glass frosted over from the ice cubes, and Leon gratefully took a long, avid pull, eyes closed in relief as the cool liquid eased past tonsils swollen to the size of VW mini-vans.

"Is that better, my dear detective?" D smiled, taking the glass away when Leon had sucked it dry, gracefully setting it down with nary a clink on the bedside table in the little pool of light cast by the lamp. "You were quite thirsty. I'll give you more in a moment—let's ensure that stays down first, shall we?"

Leon stared at the Count owlishly, blinking in the dim light, still in the process of surfacing from the fever-ridden sleep that had claimed him in the late afternoon. The Count looked as calm, cool and collected as always, decked out in form-fitting midnight blue silk, a tiny sapphire sparkling on the very end of a silver chain dangling from one pierced lobe. He was lovely—the very picture of a Chinese nobleman.

In contrast, Leon felt remarkably as though he'd just been recently chewed up and spat out by a monstrous beast, one with a ridiculous grudge against all mankind. He was gross, and he knew it, and the Count had balls just being near him when he like this. He might rub off on D or something, and that would be unforgiveable.

Disoriented, Leon glanced around his darkened bedroom, noting absently that the heap of dirty laundry had disappeared, along with the accumulated detritus of his daily life: old newspapers and coffee cups, yesterday's pile of scribbled-on sticky notes from work, empty beer cans and discarded packs of cigarettes and day's old cereal bowls crusted with dried up milk.

His gaze slid past the well-dressed figure sitting on the side of his bed, a tinge of shame darkening the clear blue, for D must have been the one who'd taken care of all his mess, making his bedroom neat and clean-smelling and bearable again. There was the odor of lemon in the air, and he was once again in a livable space. Even the threadbare industrial-grey carpet had been vacuumed, and the faux woodgrain on the various bits of furniture gleamed.

Lemon juice, the cure-all for grime. The Count liked it in his tea, sometimes. Guess it cured Leon Orcot's problems too, or at least lent grace to his slovenly apartment.

Leon blushed at the very idea, a high spot of color on each bone-white cheek bone, for he was sorely lacking in strength to defend himself when D got started the inevitable rant about Leon's bad habits…and surely the Count would, any minute now. Of course he would; Leon braced himself manfully. It was no big deal, after all, D yelling. Did it all the time, without even raising his voice.

But the Count did no such thing. He merely reached out a long-fingered hand and ruffled Leon's hair again, the blonde tendrils at Leon's temples curling around his nails and entangling them. The unexpected caress was both startling and immensely calming. Leon's lids drooped over his bloodshot baby blues and he sighed in pleasure without realizing it, for that light, affectionate touch felt very good indeed. Like Mom's hand, but not. But still soothing—_really_ soothing, like Leon shouldn't be worrying so much about things he couldn't do anything about right now.

Leon finished his visual tour of his transformed bedroom, though, gaze still downcast, for he didn't feel like looking too hard at the Count's expression. Didn't know what he might find there, and he was kinda afraid to find out.

He looked at D's lap instead, when he couldn't pretend to be examining the scratches on his desktop any longer, and admired instead, with a feverish vagueness, the particular shade of powder-blue nail polish his nemesis was sporting this fine evening. The whole world was out-of-kilter and to Leon, the color of Count D's fingernails was suddenly of great importance.

_That's pretty. _Leon decided, approving the shade silently._ Suits him. _

But everything suited D, really.

Leon's Mickey Mouse alarm clock read 10 p.m. _So late_, he mused, when he noticed it. _So very late_, nearly nodding off again, safe in the knowledge that the Count was there. _I should…I oughta…_

'Course he wouldn't actually _tell_ D how nice it was to see him right now…but maybe later….when he felt better….

_Ten o'clock! _

The toll of a warning bell boomed through the detective's fading mind, sending frozen trickles of unreasoning fear shivering down his spine_._

_Ten o'clock! So friggin' _late_! What in hell was D _thinking_, leaving Chris by himself, at this hour?!_

"Chris? Where's Chris!?"

Leon hauled his eyes open in a gush of heart-stopping alarm and peered frantically around and behind the Count, searching all the nooks and crannies of his bedroom for any sign of his little brother, his already fever-wonky pulse rate zooming up to approximately Mach 5 range.

"What have you done with my little brother, you asshole?!"

It was meant to be a roar, but Leon's throat was too sore to allow for any real volume, cutting in and out of various sound wavelengths like a staticy telephone connection and dying away ultimately to a hacking wheeze.

The Count patted Leon's shoulder where it peeped over the blanket, and smiled at him, just as usual.

"Chris is at home, tucked up in his own bed, Detective," he answered calmly, entirely unperturbed, and when Leon, wild-eyed and not quite comprehending through the heated rush of blood in his ears, tried to struggle up as if he were planning on leaping out of bed any second, the Count went on to reassure his host more specifically, in a voice sweet as molten honey, persuasive as a siren's, soothing hands stroking Leon's bare arms all the while, sliding down skin made golden by the California sun but pale and clammy now under the tan, till at last his long manicured fingers wrapped around Leon's clenched fists in an infinitely comforting grasp.

"Please! Everything is perfectly fine, Detective. Calm yourself, my dear sir—_please_. Believe me, young Christopher is very safe and secure at the Shop, and very well guarded by Tetsu and all the others. Nothing and no one can touch him, nor even so much as approach the Shop's door. I would not dare leave him for even a moment if I were at all concerned about that."

"Oh! Oh—thanks, D," Leon fell back against his pillow in relief, subsiding into an exhausted heap, though his fingers still clung to the Count's as if stuck there. "I mean—yeah. I was, uh, kinda…um, worried, that's all. He's pretty little, you know, so—"

"I do, Detective," the Count smiled.

"And so, yeah…_them_…I kinda must've forgot them for a second…Tetsu's there. And Pon-chan. S'right, Shop's'so'kay—sorry, sorry," Leon mumbled, bleary eyes veiled against the ceiling tiles that swam like maddened hornets above him, scowling fiercely as he fought hard against the nausea brought on by thrashing around like an idiot. He swallowed with difficulty, and attempted to roll sideways, forcing angry bile down his raspy throat, yet still eking out his stumbling, stupid-sounding apology in whispered gasps.

"….Didn't…mean to… make it…sound...." _He had a trashcan somewhere in here—a trashcan!_

"_You_ are the one who is far more worrisome, Detective," interrupted the Count, frowning in turn at his stubborn friend. "Why did you not contact me sooner? There's no reason for this, you know."

Leon didn't answer that, mainly because he couldn't, what with swallowing and swallowing and trying not barf all over his bed and the Count and everything.

And he didn't, really. Know, that was. Couldn't think about that right now. Not right now.

His belly rumbled volcanically instead, making him gasp and flush with embarrassed shame, and then proceeded to twist itself into total pretzel knots of intricately layered pain and queasiness, sending him hurtling upright, desperate to escape the bed once again but this time for the safe confines of the apartment's tiny bathroom. Or a wastepaper basket—that would so just great, yeah. _Now_. He had one; he knew it.

With never a change to that serene half-smile of his, D calmly reached down and fetched a porcelain basin he must've had ready and snagged the lurching Leon 'round the shoulders, supporting the biliously greenish detective as he leant forward to finally, sadly vomit up his precious ginger ale; rubbing his back just like Leon's Mom used to as he heaved, and heaved again till he was dry as a bone in the desert and all wrung out. Throughout it all, the Count never once scolded him, nor seemed impatient or disgusted by the not-so-silent moments of Leon's gastric distress.

"Uhn," Leon groaned when he was done, leaning heavily on D's shoulder, his strained and wretched features far whiter than the sheet entangling him. "Uhnnn…."

"Better now, Detective?" D eyed his charge carefully, for Leon was truly ill this once, in sharp contrast to his usual obnoxious good health.

"So s-sorry…didn't mean to…make _you_…of all people…" the detective's dark blonde lashes were soggy with weak tears, for it had been really god-awful, losing his cookies like _that_. No wonder he hadn't eaten anything before; he was always like this when he was sick, now that he remembered. A patient only a mother could love, and only 'cause she was biologically related to him.

Poor Count D, having to put up with all his shit. Leon felt really, honestly bad for him.

In fact, in all his life, Leon couldn't ever remember feeling as awful as he did at this very moment, his body an icky, rebellious germ hotel, his manly pride in tatters before the Count's slipper-shod feet. All that physical perfection at his bedside and here _he_ was, supposedly an adult, fully capable of caring for himself, gacking up soda like a little kid. Surely it couldn't get any worse than this… or maybe it could, if he'd managed to gross D out enough to scare him away.

Leon figured he'd probably die of dehydration if that happened. Didn't have the strength to make it to the bathroom, much less the kitchen for a glass of water. Maybe that'd be okay, though. Wasn't much left to him, anyway.

"It's fine, Detective. Really. Don't concern yourself," D murmured softly, dabbing at his perspiring face with the cool washcloth he had miraculously handy. Leon tried not wonder where all these useful things came from, or how the Count knew he needed them, and thought about just plain old Count D instead.

There. That was a lot nicer prospect. D's vermillion lips—was it lipstick? Or just natural?— were still curved into his habitual half-smile, his expression reflecting nothing but his usual smooth surface. He looked great in dark blue; Leon admired the sapphire. D's midnight dark brows had knitted together over mismatched eyes both concerned and intent, though. He seemed a little worried—anxious even, like Leon mattered or something.

Having the Count look at him like that kinda made Leon feel a little better, somehow. He might live. Maybe.

"I really don't mind it, Detective." D put down the washcloth and shifted Leon within his arm, so that the detective could lay his head down and stay still for a moment. It helped a lot with the residual nausea.

"Not at all. I am more than capable of assisting a creature in the throes of illness and you are in need of that service, are you not? And I am more than happy to provide it. I'm sure you would do the same, were the situation reversed." The Count seemed assured of that surprising conclusion and Leon didn't bother to argue. He'd like to think he'd be man enough to baby the Count through any sickness he contracted—not that D ever seemed to be anything less than perfect.

"Um," Leon grunted, eyes closed, his head nestled into the warm hollow between D's shoulder and the line of his perfectly angled jaw. It felt good, doing that. "Yeah…but I'm probably kinda _not_ what you wanted to deal with tonight. M'sorry I'm such a fucking wreck."

"That's understandable, Detective. You are ill. Please, don't upset yourself further," the Count replied in his light tenor. "Concentrate instead on visualizing a return your usual fine health."

"Uh…riiight." Leon answered, a little dubious about that suggestion, but he didn't dare nod or shake his head. Too risky. Besides, Leon still couldn't smell anything through his clogged-up honker, but that didn't seem to stop the stupid Count D pheromones from bugging him. Even without a working nose, Leon could still tell D smelt _good_.

_Felt good, too. Not like a woman; kinda boney, actually, but still…yeah. Just 'good'. _

The Count, meanwhile, had evidently decided his patient needed to be tidied. He eased Leon's limp form over a bit, carefully steadying him. Sure hands moved to gently sliding the damp, stinky T-shirt up and over Leon's vaguely protesting head, deftly replacing it with a freshly laundered one he'd had tucked away somewhere.

"Come on, stop, D," Leon begged, totally red-faced. This was the worst thing he could imagine: the Count copping a feel—well, not really—when Leon was sick as dog. If he were healthy—if D meant to—that'd be alright, but this!

"Really, Count D—I _mean_ it," he repeated, getting a little desperate as his nipples perked up and so did his dick, but D just shook his silky dark head and continued on with smoothing out wrinkles in the T-shirt.

Leon stubbornly clung to him all the way through the process, as a drunken sailor binds himself to the wheel of a sinking ship, trying futilely to hinder the hands that helped him, but he was in absolutely no shape at all to fight off the ministering Count.

"No!" he half-whispered, half-yelled, when those same manicured hands gripped the waistband of his ancient boxers under the sheets.

"No, D! You _really_ don't have to do this—I'm ok…I can take care of it—just let me," he swore, feeling guilty as hell for making D watch over him as he barfed up his guts, and wretched as all get out because he'd actually been weak enough to do so in front of an audience—and now scared spitless that his stupid horny guy's body might betray him yet _again_, in an entirely different way.

For one thing, it galled Leon greatly that he had to be dressed like an infant, by the very man who so often mocked him. What if D mocked him now, when he was too weak to control his natural reaction? For another, he had a fucking _hard-on_, for chrissake, and he was sick as dog—not a damn thing he could do about it!

"I don't think so, Leon. I'm here solely because you _can't_," D's voice was sharp, certainly, but Leon's muzzy hearing clearly registered the underlying note of concern. Not a drop of mockery diluted it. 

His bleary eyes opened wide as he took in the concern apparent in D's downcast amethyst-and-gold eyes as the man focused on easing the stretched-out elastic down Leon's goose-pimpled hips. Leon absorbed that look like so much vitamin D—a healing jolt straight to his run-down system, better even than ginger ale and chicken soup. And his traitorous body reacted wildly in turn to the whispering touch of those long nails, sweeping down his bared hips and flanks, the skin of his calves. Leon _yearned_, his pelvis thrusting upwards, bucking without volition under the touch of those cool palms.

Oh, god, but he wanted so much to be touched right now, right there—to be stroked into ecstasy and have all the tension of feeling shitty be erased away like magic. To get off, and to have it be the Count who took him there.

God, but he_ was_ really sick, wasn't he? Thinking weird stuff like that about somebody who was kind enough to help him? He was a perv—nasty as the skanks down on the Boulevard.

But swift, sure hands hidden under the quilt had tugged the boxers all the way down whilst Leon fought his libido, shifting his heavy legs and cold feet with a smooth motion, and then the process reversed itself, all without any input from the Detective, as the Count inserted Leon's lower half into clean underwear and fresh pajama pants and eased them both back up his chilled body. Leon's unwillingly amorous parts were completely – and _kindly_ – ignored.

Leon swallowed and coughed, abruptly giving up on protesting _anything_. It wasn't stopping the Count anyway. He ceased actively hindering his savior, and stuck his hands meekly in his sheet-draped lap, folding his knuckled together and gamely hiding his swollen genitalia as much as he was able, uncomfortably aware that he was being a royal pain in the ass when D was just trying—just trying—to _help_ him, yeah. Goddamn it….he was so fucking aware it _hurt_.

"T-thanks, D. Owe ya' one." He did manage to force the words out when D was done, but it was a real effort and not 'cause he was ungrateful or anything. It was more the deadly combination of unexpected lust and fever that was doing him in. And the way the Count smelled. And the way he looked—fuck, but Leon hadn't wanted anyone ever the wayhe wanted Count D right this minute.

Not happening, though, and he knew it. He concentrated on monitoring his breathing instead, and controlling the convulsive shiver that was consuming him.

"No. As I've just told you, I'm glad to be of s-service." The Count had been just so very matter-of-fact all through stripping Leon naked and clothing him again, except for this last, barely discernable hitch in his voice. A ghost of a grin crossed the detective's pale face the second he caught it, for absolutely no good reason at all.

"Detective."

Oh, _yeah_. He _wasn't_ totally imagining the furtive spots of color on D's handsome face, or the tell-tale quiver in those capable fingers. It wasn't just him, doing all the stupid, lonely lusting here! The Count felt something, too—he must've, or Leon was a totally shit detective and should be kicked off the Force for reading D's body language in completely the wrong way. But he wasn't, Leon—even sick as a hound dog, he was no dummy. Damn it all to Hell, but realizing D was kinda hot under the collar made Leon feel lots better, all the sudden!

"Lie back, please, Detective. These sheets should be changed, but we'll wait till you're more up to snuff, I think."

D fussed a bit more until he was finally satisfied that Leon was presentable again, and then eased the detective off his collarbone and back down onto his newly plumped pillows, shaking out the edges of the rumpled sheets and tucking them neatly under the edge of the bed, moving on to straighten the tangled quilt until it was neat and tidy. He pulled yet another blanket up—one Leon hadn't seen before; the Count must've brought it with him—encasing the chilled detective in two layers of warmth.

Leon pawed at him shakily, not wanting D to fidget so much, not knowing quite what to do about it, but the Count merely caught the detective's restless hands when he was finished, stilling them with a firm clasp, and smiled calmly as per usual, eyes impenetrable again, any concern—or sexual interest—he might've been feeling for his charge very well disguised.

"Don't be so hasty to reject my help, Detective. You really are quite ill; seriously so, I'd imagine, judging by your temperature and general appearance. You require that someone care for you, yes? It may as well be me_, _then, for I know you quite well, my dear detective. Thus, there's not the slightest need for all this botheration on your part. Relax, please. Feel better."

"Count D?"

Leon stared up at the weird apparition before him, glassy-eyed, confused, suddenly very unsure if he was truly awake or merely still dreaming, deep in fever, for this surely wasn't the Count _he_ knew.

"D?"

This was Christopher's Count D, the version who'd taken in Leon's little brother with open arms, the one who was incredibly patient and kind, the best of surrogate mothers a lucky little orphan boy could ever hope to have….but he sure as hell wasn't the one Leon Orcot was used to. Leon knew the Count D of the razor tongue and the superior manner; the mysterious Chinese man who delighted in frustrating him at every turn, and insulting him at every other. Not the same; not the same at all.

"What, Detective? Something amiss?"

It puzzled the detective greatly, for he hadn't thought D had it in him to willingly share the brand of warmth he dished out so freely to Chris and the Pets with the admittedly pesky, obnoxious elder brother of his little human charge. And here the Count was proving Leon wrong all over the place, with not a single word of reprobation crossing his scarlet lips, nor even a hint of his usual sarcasm.

Whatever…it was weird as all Hell but it was also kind of nice. Leon found he liked D's girly fussing, actually. And the utter absence of their usual uneasy tension was both refreshing and calming. But still, it was downright strange_,_ all the same. Being sick like this, having the Count at his beck and call - all of it was stranger than fiction, including the nasty fact that D had indeed been the very _first_ one Leon had thought of when he got sick…the _only_ one he'd wanted with him in his time of need.

Before Chris, before Jill, before _anyone_…. And what was even more Ripley's Believe-It-Or-Not was the fact that _he wasn't surprised_ – not at all – that D was here. He'd kind of expected it, to be brutally honest. Had fallen asleep thinking that it would happen, even if the rest of his brain was yukking it up hilariously at the very notion.

And he'd no clue, not even an inkling, that he'd feel this way, two days ago when he'd been perfectly healthy. Man, two days ago, he and the Count had had another one of their wicked disagreements, in which Leon accused him of some largely unproven form of illegality and the Count practically snickered in his face, as if Leon were a total goon and a dork.

And, also….'sooner,' the Count said earlier, as if peeved at Leon for not cluing him in until so late in the day. But Leon knew for damn sure he hadn't called anybody, not for close to twenty-four hours. His cell phone was in the kitchen, deader than a doornail, exactly where he'd left it on the counter after he'd contacted Jill and let her know he was sicker than a dog and couldn't make it in to work. The bedroom phone was on his desk, over by the window. Both were topographically farther than he'd been able to physically manage navigating by the time he'd figured out that maybe he should get some help. So, how had D even known he was sick?

How had D responded to a phone call that never been placed? Or known of a need Leon hadn't even really acknowledged, much less been able to articulate to himself? That he was sicker than he'd been in a long, long time, and might very well end up in the Obit section if somebody didn't come save him?

_It was weird, weird, weird! Fucking strange!_

"Do you think you could perhaps manage to eat something now, Detective?"

Strangeness aside, the Count's quiet question interrupted the detective's rambling survey of the random events that had lead to it. Unnoticed, Count D had risen from his seat on the side of the bed while Leon had been abstracted and now seemed intent on his next task—feeding the patient strengthening foods--his expression both calm and purposeful.

"I've brought various herbal medicines for you," he went on, "but they're all far more effective when the stomach has something in it other than simply acid. Perhaps some consommé first?"

"_Uhh_. Maybe," Leon groaned and whispered, tabling the thoughts of what was odd and odder and what wasn't for the time being, for his stomach growled hungrily at the mention of being fed. When _had_ he last eaten? Yesterday? The day before? There'd been a cheeseburger he remembered seeing twice—once on the way down, accompanied by cold fries and a chocolate shake, and once on the way back up, in the unhappy surrounds of his grimy bathroom.

"I guess." Maybe he wasn't really all that hungry. Didn't seem safe to risk it, just yet.

D spun on one heel, obviously heading for the kitchen, but his patient reached out without warning and grabbed a desperate handful of the midnight-blue silk, grimly hanging on, and even swinging his other hand around haphazardly as well, to clutch like a dying man at one thin wrist.

"Wait!" Leon yelped. "I didn't mean _now_, okay? Just hang on a minute, will you? Please?"

He grimaced immediately at the effort it had just taken simply to keep the Count from going and fretfully closed his eyes, blocking out the look of astonishment on D's too-handsome face, for all of Leon's recent physical activity - protesting _this_ and worrying about _that_, barfing and talking sense and thinking nonsense and being unbearably aroused – all of it had been very wearing and he no longer had the strength to keep up.

"'M'not hungry yet, so stay_,_" Leon begged D, almost inaudibly. "Stay."

The Count more read Leon's lips than actually heard him speak, his jewel-like eyes now very intently focused on the pale man in the bed.

"Stay? You'd prefer company, Leon? I won't disturb you?"

The Count was sitting even as he asked the question, though, settling his heart-shaped derriere on the bed next to Leon's hip. A quick palm to Leon's brow made him sigh in exasperation.

"You're still quite hot, Leon. Much too hot for a healthy human. Please, allow me to retrieve you something for that—"

"No! Just…stay," Leon commanded, his voice thin and raspy and querulous, the fingers of one cold hand firmly pinning D's wrist to the bed. "Please."

The Count winced a little at the deathly pressure and gently worked at Leon's determined grasp with his free hand, easing the tips of his long polished nails between whitened knuckles and gradually loosening the painful grip.

"I…want…you…here," the detective continued, his ghostly voice dying away at the last, his labored breathing slowing perceptibly as he slid peacefully into a healing sleep, the restraining hand going lax under D's prying gingers. D looked up from their entangled hands immediately, studying the little-boy-lost expression revealed clearly on Leon's fever-pale face, and then sighed once more—in an entirely different way.

"Yes…alright. For a little while, Leon, and then I really must make you something to eat. And you _will_ eat it."

"Nnn," Leon muttered in response, but he was deep in REM already and D knew he'd not been heard.

The Count settled himself more comfortably on the bed. Leon's cold fingers still grasped the delicate bones of his wrist, though D could have pulled away at any time with little or no effort. Instead he left his one arm where it was, captive, trailing the fingertips of his free hand softly across Leon's sleep-relaxed features, over firm lips that parted faintly and the charming cleft in the detective's square, stubbly chin.

The Count grinned suddenly, a cat's smile, mysterious and unfathomable, the amethyst-and-gold eyes alight with suppressed amusement.

"And you, Leon, my love, you must get better soon," he purred, smirking. "Most certainly I shall endeavor to restore your health as quickly as possible, for you_, _dear one, are entirely too intuitive when you're ill," D promised his captive detective under his breath, red lips curving upwards, though his unusual eyes changed in a flash mid-sentence, revealing a new emotion entirely at odds with his teasing tone, "and, believe me, we can't have that."

The Count tapped a meticulously filed nail against the unconscious detective's unshaven cheek in silent reproof, his expression serious once more.

"You are, without a doubt, a very dangerous man, Detective Leon Orcot, especiallywhen you're utterly helpless…"

Leaning forward all the sudden, the Count brushed a kiss across Leon's chapped lips, lingering there, his sweet breath a healing elixir that trickled oh, so slowly into Leon's mouth and immediately began to work its mysterious magic, sending tendrils down to ease the detective's raw, red throat, calm his stifled breathing, soothe the lingering nausea and the feverish headache.

"….and that is what worries me the most."

Leon sighed, and turned towards that voice in his sleep. He knew it, and the wonderful scent that went with it, and the smooth skin over steel that lingered in the cradle of his palm, and all these things together made him feel better than any drug a mere human could devise.

END


End file.
